That Scar on Your Face
by Willow25
Summary: Post Daemonicus, Doggett and Reyes reconsider how they react to one another.
1. Back at The Begining

That Scar on Your Face

By: Willow25

Rated: PG/13

Spoilers: Daemonicus

A/N: This post-ep story was written almost two years ago in response to a challenge from a friend, who is a huge DRR Shipper, and insisted that writing her a story would help cure the writer's block I was having on a long MSR I was working on. Well, I finished her story, and still haven't finished mine. So she was wrong, but I hope you all agree that something good came out of it!

Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters, any songs or musical artists, or any locations in the DC metro area which are mentioned in this story. Chris Carter, 1013 productions, and Fox own the characters. The songs and artists mentioned are the only ones profiting from their work, and I mention them only out of respect. Hopefully, any and all locations are public domain. I'm making no money from this, and very little glory. I hope you gain enjoyment as great as I got from writing this.

* * *

I gather myself and nod a silent goodbye to Dana before trudging up that long flight of stairs out of the auditorium, towards the hall where I hope John is waiting to drive me home. The last 24 hours weigh heavily on me, and John's show with the chalkboard feels like the last straw. He's been bound and determined to prove me wrong on this case, and he did, his glee making me uneasy. I do believe he felt that same tangible evil I did, and that his refusal to admit it is born more from fear than anything else. Still, part of me feels his unwillingness to believe as rejection, of me.

Before John Doggett landed in my life, I never would have believed a man could put me in this state. I probably would have laughed my ass off at the idea. I'd learned over the years to build defenses against other peoples' emotions, to recognize and deal only with my own feelings. I've never been so wrapped up in a man that I felt what they felt, that their pains and insecurities became mine. I can usually separate myself from that tendency, and be caring and open without intruding into their feelings.

With John I have no such defenses. I can't hope to explain it, this connection between us. All I know is that I feel what he feels, and I can't stop. I'm the singular witness to the emotion behind that steely exterior; not because I want to let him in, but because there's no way I can keep him out.

Emotional connection aside, something else is going on here. He's been uncertain this whole case; disoriented, unstable; and I feel that too. I feel his absence of concern for my feelings; in the way he's been treating me. He can tell I'm hurting, I'm sure, and he doesn't care.

The more I think about it, the more I feel that this isn't about him being afraid; it's about him being unable to stand me. He's surely decided that he regrets asking me to come to DC and work with him. He doesn't want me as a partner, or anything more. He thinks I'm a flake, following anyone with an unusual story down the primrose path…

On second thought, maybe I don't hope he's waiting for me.

I reach the top step and take a deep breath before opening the door. There he is, pacing the hallway, waiting for me. When he sees me he stops pacing, nods, and turns down the hall towards the exit, clearly expecting me to follow. You follow everyone else, Monica, why not follow me?

I sigh and trail after him, feeling woozy. It's not like me to wallow in negativity. I never have to put a lot of effort into being upbeat and positive; it's my natural state. Today, though, my mood seems to be free falling; all I want to do is curl up on my couch with a fuzzy blanket and listen to depressing music. I want to be alone when I'm in a bad mood; negativity lowers my defenses, making it hard to steel myself against other people. I long for the comfy, overstuffed couch in storage in New Orleans, but I guess the couch in my hotel room will do in a pinch.

When we reach the car, John opens my door the way he always does, but rather than holding it for me he continues around the front of the car to his side and gets in. I wince mentally. Yes, today definitely calls for my "Bad Mood Mix" tape. I climb in and close the door, leaning my head against the window; its coolness soothing what is rapidly becoming a pounding headache. I feel John glance at me as he starts the car, and wonder if he's going to ask how I am, or just let it go.

"You okay, Mon?"

Well, maybe he cares after all. Of course he cares, you idiot, you know that. He's just dealing with a lot of internal conflict right now. Great, now I'm talking to myself. I lift my head and answer, "I'm alright, John. I just have a headache."

He nods as though this confirms something and pulls out of the lot. He silently heads for I-395, and evidently there is some genuine concern here, because he leaves the radio off. One of the great joys of driving around with John Doggett is the way we argue over the radio. We both like music and our tastes are varied and often conflicting.

In part to reassure him that I am in fact fine, and in part to spark a conversation of some kind, I flip on the radio. The last thing we'd been listening to was NPR. Earlier it had been the news, now it was some kind of easy listening piano and horn piece, and I leave the station where it is, if only to annoy him into speaking to me.

I sense his confusion, but he remains silent. Although whatever is on the radio is not remotely either of our tastes, I don't reach for the radio again. You're confused, John? Why don't you ask me what's going on. Complain about this awful music. Give me something other than this stony silence where I only have your emotions, flowing over me like the tide, to deal with. In short order I feel anger, worry, fear, and doubt. Well, that makes two of us. I return my head to the window, exhausted.

"This is NPR, National Public Radio. You have been listening to John Tesh, his new album, in its entirety. Next up is track twelve." The announcer's voice fades away, and a new song starts. Yuk, John Tesh. John Doggett is amused, I'm not sure whether it's at my groan, or that we've been listening to John Tesh.

"I'm glad you're in a better mood." I comment without thinking, my relief that he's been cheered up distracting me from the fact that I'm sitting facing away from him with my eyes closed, and therefore shouldn't know he's amused. I feel his mood darken immediately, and wince. Stupid, stupid woman. I'm usually so careful.

"Who said I wasn't in a good mood to begin with? We solved the case, didn't we?" John's voice is tense, and I'm relieved he has chosen to let my slip go, for now.

"You just haven't seemed very happy lately, John. I worry about you." I keep my voice quiet; it's taking a lot of effort not to scream at him right now, to force a confrontation.

His response is quiet. "Don't worry about me, Monica. I always land on my feet." I feel the concern and regret behind his words, and chose not to reassure him. He can't think that telling me not to care is going to have any effect on how I feel. At least, I hope not. God, I'm tired. I flip off the radio, my attempt at sparking conversation having dropped like a lead balloon, and we sit in silence the entire way back to my hotel.


	2. When in Rome

Disclaimers and author's note in Chapter 1.

* * *

Doggett:

I can tell she's hurting; pain seems to be radiating from her as she huddles closer to the car door. I just don't know what to do about it. I know it's not physical, at least I think it isn't; yet I don't know what's really going on in Mon's head. Is she embarrassed, is she mad at me? I'd give a quarter for her thoughts at this point, but I don't know how to ask what's going on, so I sit and drive in silence.

When we reach the Hyatt she's out the door before I can open it for her. She stops and turns back to the car, and for the first time since we left Quantico our eyes meet. For a split second I want to kill the bastard who put that haunted look on her face. Then I realize that bastard was me. "See you tomorrow, John." She murmurs, and before I can stop her she's gone.

I sit paralyzed for a moment, unable to understand what just happened here. That was a lotta sad on her face, and it wasn't there the last time I really looked. Although she had looked anxious, standing there next to Dana. Maybe she's just tired. She's had a rough couple of days; so have I for that matter. I don't remember anything happening that would have hit her that hard. So, it must have been me. I did something in the last three hours that really hurt Monica, and for the life of me I can't figure out what the hell it was.

After a minute just sitting there I pull out into traffic, mulling over what happened at Quanitco, trying to pinpoint where I was such an ass. I'm not coming up with anything, when out of the blue it hits me. I didn't discuss my theory on the case with her before I presented it to Dana in that classroom. Normally that wouldn't have been such a big deal, but if she'd heard Kobold say that I was in love with Dana Scully, then my behavior indicated that he was right.

Could that be what upset her so much? Monica and I are close, and I know she cares about me a lot, but did the thought of me being in love with Dana bother her that much? Not that I'm in love with Dana. I mean, I care about Dana, I worry about her, alone with the baby; but I'm not in love with her. Monica has to know that. She knows me better than anyone; she's my best friend. She knows me so well, how could she believe I was in love with Dana?

I'm having a hard time sorting this out, and the more I think about it, the more confused I get. I'm not even sure she heard what that nut case said to me. I could be completely off. As I turn onto Pennsylvania Avenue to head towards home, my cell phone rings. I pull it out, praying it's Monica, and see Dana Scully's office number staring back at me.

"Yeah, Doggett." I answer, and I can feel my ears turning red.

"Agent Doggett. I need you to do me a favor." She sounds upset, like she hates asking me for anything. Which I'm sure she does.

"Whada ya need, Agent Scully?" I try to sound like this is no big deal, that she asks me for stuff all the time. Don't think I'm pulling it off, but I'm giving casual my best shot.

"Byers just called me. He and Langly went to Arizona to check out a story, and they can't find Frohike to pick them up from the airport. Could you and Agent Reyes run up to BWI and get them?"

Oh great, an hour in the car with Frick and Frack. What a way to end the day. "Ah, sure, Scully. Tell them I'll be about an hour getting there, and give them my cell number, so if they find Frohike, they can let me know."

"Thank you, Agent Doggett. They're in Terminal 3; they came in on American. I tried to get a hold of Monica; you might want to let her know her cell phone is off."

Yeah, as soon as she's speaking to me again, I'll do that. "Alright, I will. See you later." I hang up before she can ask to speak to Monica, and I have to explain myself. Monica and Dana have gotten close, I guess they bonded or whatever women do when Dana had the baby. Monica says Dana really needs a friend; someone to be her sounding board, to talk about everything and nothing. When we worked on the X-Files together, Dana never seemed real inclined to talk, but Mon's easy to talk to.

Except when you're trying to tell her you're sorry. Or that she's your best friend. Or that you've been in love with her through years of sporadic contact; falling into it so slowly I didn't even notice until one time when I went to visit her in New Orleans about two years ago and I…I mean you… Ah hell, who am I kidding here? I'm in love with the woman; if I can't say it to her, I should at least be able to think it.

I wind back through DC and get on the Baltimore-Washington Parkway, on my way to pick up two of Mulder's three crazy, paranoid friends. As much as I hate to admit it, even to myself, they've grown on me. All three of them. They're honest, no bull kind of guys, and I can respect that. Although that doesn't mean I necessarily want to be trapped in the car with them all the way back to Virginia, especially without Mon.

She and Langly have developed a sort of friendship since she's been up here; evidently Monica Reyes played a bit of Dungeons and Dragons in her youth, which gave them something to talk about. I don't really understand it, but Monica is a people person; she's always picking up strays, me among them. Almost doesn't surprise me that she'd befriend Langly; after all, Frohike was closest to Mulder from what Dana says, and Byers is closer to Dana than any of them. Must come from years of being the most rational voice in the room.

I fidget with the radio, hoping to distract my overloaded brain. Prince, Little Red Corvette. I smile; if Mon were here she'd be fighting me for the radio at this point. I can practically hear her yelling at me not to change the station, see the huge smile splitting her face. She loves Eighties music, the cheesier the better. I once sat through an entire Bananarama CD on the way out to West Virginia for a case. I flip the station; sorry she's not there to protest even though I don't really care for Prince, or whatever his name is this year. Some love song, a woman crooning ear splitting high notes. No way, next station. Ah, Alan Jackson. That's some good stuff, right there. I hum along as I drive, and a sign coming up on my right reminds me I'm only 3 miles from the exit for I-195, which will take me out to the airport.


	3. A New Hope

* * *

Reyes: 

After dumping my stuff on an armchair by the door, I make a beeline for the shower, shedding clothes in my wake. I emerge feeling marginally better physically, but my mood has not improved enough to snap me out of this funk. I grab the pillow and comforter from my bed and navigate through piles of cardboard boxes filled with things too important to be put in storage while I look for an apartment. I dump the pillow and blanket on the couch in the 'sitting area' near the window, and ponder the boxes. Now, where is that tape? I know it's not in the car; I never put it in the car. My mixed tape of depressing music is strictly for use when curled up on the couch. I rifle through a box labeled 'entertainment center', spotting it in a corner. I rarely play any of my tapes, but I couldn't bring myself to put them in storage; they come in handy sometimes. Good thing.

I pop the tape into a small stereo the hotel has thoughtfully provided, and bypass the couch to grab an open bottle of wine from the mini fridge and a jelly glass from yet another box, before weaving my way over to drop bonelessly onto the couch. Ah, this is what I needed. Soft piano music floats through my room, mimicking the sound of rain. I uncork the wine and fill the little glass. Finding a wine glass in this mess, which I would then have to concentrate on not breaking, was too much like effort at this point.

George Michael's voice floats through the room, a sad song called _Cowboys and Angels_, off the Listen Without Prejudice Album. I know most people think of George Michael, they think of Wham! and early Eighties pop tunes, but I like this album the best. This album is more mature, deeper and more expressive; and say what you will about the man, he has an amazing voice.

I gulp my wine more than I sip it, pondering this case, the last few days, and generally John's behavior. Since his investigation into Kersh turned up nothing, it's like he's floundering, unsure of himself, and of me. I suspect it has more to do with his own insecurities than anything, that part of him feels like he's failed because Kersh turned up clean as far as we can tell. Although that doesn't seem quite right either. Something is definitely wrong, but I can't put my finger on exactly when or why it might have started.

I frown and take another gulp of my wine as the lyrics roll over me. "…But that scar on your face, that beautiful face of yours…Don't you think that I know, they've hurt you, before?" I picture John, the look on his face as he cradled Luke's body, all those years ago. The pain in his eyes five months later when he announced quietly that his wife had left him. The way he'd nearly begged me to come to Virginia with him while he went through the Academy. The hollow sound of his voice over too many miles of telephone wire when I told him I'd met Brad. Then, the coldness between us when I'd picked him up at LaGuardia for his father's funeral.

It had taken us nearly three years to recover our friendship, and after that I thought that I'd understood the rules. John wasn't ready to give himself emotionally. He'd give friendship, and sex if I wanted him, but not a real relationship. I'd taken him up on the sex once. Over the years, that night had grown to mythical proportions in my mind, both as a high and low point in my life. The sex had been wonderful, yet he was so walled off it was emotionless. After he'd left the next morning I'd spent an hour crying in the tub, feeling stupid and used. The pain of that morning had faded slowly, but as we became close once again, I'd resigned myself to the fact that he just wasn't ready.

After I signed on to the X-Files, I'd thought he might be. He had a fire lit under him when we were investigating Kersh, a spark I'd never seen in him before. I have to admit, it was more than a little attractive, seeing him so passionate about something. I got my hopes up, believing that he was ready to take that giant leap forward, and start living again. Maybe I'm wrong. Either that, or it isn't me he wants. Perhaps he doesn't feel for me what I feel for him.

The lyrics of the song catch my ear again. "Please be stronger than your past. The future may still give you, a chance." The soft voice fades out into a saxophone solo, and I sigh. I hope that one day John can let go of his demons, because if he can't, he is dooming both of us to misery. Even if he never loves me the way I love him, I am connected to him, in some way I cannot fathom. If he is never happy again, if he can never let go of that part of himself still grieving for Luke, I will always feel it, too.

* * *

Doggett: 

I pull onto the arrivals ramp for Terminal 3, searching for Langly and Byers among the throng of late arriving travelers. Thankfully, I spot them quickly, and pull in as close to them as possible.

"Agent Doggett, good to see you." Byers addresses me, as I hop out to help them with their luggage.

"Where's Reyes?" Langly asks, not bothering with the nicety of a hello.

"Good to see you too." I reply, a little amused at Langly. "She wen' back to the hotel before Agent Scully called me. Figured I'd let her get some rest."

Langly snorted. "What'd you do to piss her off this time, dog breath?" He glared at me, throwing a duffle bag into the trunk and climbing into the back seat.

I blinked mutely at the spot he'd been standing in. What the hell was that about? Did I piss her off that often, that Langly even knew about it? Did she call him and complain about me? When she was in New Orleans, I was the one she called to complain to about her co-workers.

Byers leaned closer to me as he dropped his bag into the trunk. "Don't listen to him. He's just upset because the tip we were following was a bust. Turns out it was just fireflies."

"Fireflies." I repeat, wondering what the hell they'd been looking for in Arizona that fireflies had been mistaken for it.

Byers continues, answering my unasked question. "We heard reports of what appeared to be alien activity around an Army base. Turns out they were installing new high voltage electrical wires, and the electricity attracted swarms of fireflies. Highly unusual, and an interesting story, but not the cover story we were hoping for."

I nodded and closed the hatch, my thoughts returning to Monica as I climbed back into the driver's seat. Byers got into the front passenger seat, and we were on our way. We drove in silence for about five minutes, until Langly started in on me again.

"Seriously, man, what's up with you and Reyes? I know homegirl wouldn't pass up the chance to spend time with you; or me for that matter, so what gives? She mad at you or something?"

Before I can stop them, words come flying out my mouth. "I have no idea what I did, but yes, Langly, she's mad at me. Since I got no idea what I did, I can't apologize. And since I can't apologize, I guess she's just gonna stay mad at me." My mouth closes as abruptly as it opened, and I can feel Langly's eyes boring into the back of my head. I wish like hell I could take back the words, but unless someone invents a rewind button for life, there they are.

Byers clears his throat. "You know, Agent Doggett, maybe you should talk to her about this. If you don't know what you did wrong, it was obviously unintentional…"

"Yeah, Doggett; just go tell her you're sorry for upsetting her, and ask her what you did, so you know not to do it again. She's cool, she'll get that. Besides, she already knows you're clueless, it's not gonna come as much of a shock."

I flinch at Langly's words, even though I know he's just trying to help. That's me, John Doggett, clueless flatfoot. Dana and Monica both had years to study all these weird phenomena we encounter. I'd never seriously considered possession, or aliens, or any of this other crazy shit and here I am, up to my neck in it. Forget for a minute the fact that in all likelihood I was right about this last case. I'd been wrong, or just plain unbelieving about most of the stuff I've seen in the last year.

Monica truly believes in this stuff, I forget that sometimes. I get so wrapped up in the fact that I'm absolutely sure this stuff about possession and whatnot is impossible, I forget that she's spent most of her life studying religion and spirituality. This case was right up her alley; she probably has a hundred reference books documenting this stuff, and I'd dismissed her opinion like she had no idea what she was talking about.

God, I'm a real ass sometimes. Why wouldn't she be upset at me? I treated her like I was the expert, like I had all the answers. To make matters worse, I'd asked Dana what she thought, but I'd never asked Monica. I am a first class jackass. I've gotta make this up to her. As soon as I lose the guys, I'm heading straight to the Hyatt to apologize. Hopefully, she'll let me in. I wouldn't, if I were her.

"Dude, you know what you should do?" Langly continues as though he'd never paused. "Take her out to dinner, and talk to her. She's not some weak chick you have to worry about tiptoeing around. Just open your big mouth and try not to say anything else to piss her off."

Byers added. "Flowers wouldn't hurt, either."

* * *

Reyes: 

As the tape wears on, I feel marginally better. Of course, the wine may be helping with my mood, too. I decide to put a cork in it, literally, before I end up passed out on this plastic feeling couch and wake up twisted like a pretzel. As I make my way back to the fridge to banish the wine inside, I nearly trip over a box of books. Deciding that a good book is just the thing to take my mind off of John, I begin unloading the box onto my bed. Mostly, it contains non-fiction and reference books. I'd decided to keep those books with me, in case I needed them to research a case.

That's so me. I have all these research books to verify my theories, case studies to base my hunches on, and what do I do? I go off half-cocked, with nothing to back me up, and then I'm furious with John when he doesn't believe me. I groan, and drop to the bed, half sitting on a book on Santeria. Boy, did I screw up. I know John's not a believer; he refuses to go with a hunch to the point of absurdity. He needs facts to back up my theories; I need to be able to present him with a precedent if I can even hope to convince him.

I forget sometimes that he's predisposed not to believe me. I tend to take it for granted that people will give me the benefit of the doubt about my beliefs after two years in New Orleans. Most of the Agents I worked with in the Big Easy were a lot more lax than they are at Headquarters. So many of them were natives of the area, there were a lot of people with a great-Grandmother or Aunt twice removed who had "the gift". It's hard not to believe in the power of the spirits in New Orleans.

Most of the time, John listens to my ideas with an open mind, even if he's not too delicate about telling me when he thinks I'm full of it. He's not too delicate about a lot of things, but I wouldn't have it any other way. Unlike most people, John is very straightforward. He doesn't play head games, in either his personal or professional life. He'd never go speeding towards unnecessary danger without backup. He's blunt almost to the point of making others uncomfortable. That's just who he is. It's what makes him a good partner, and a good friend.

Kobold's words haunt me. When John's denial was not immediate, I did the only thing my heart would let me do at that moment. I ran. I know John and Dana will never get involved; Dana is in love with her Mulder. I've also seen the looks John gives her, and I know what he feels for her is not romantic. It is an intense connection that has developed between them in the last eight months, but it is more the connection of siblings, or close friends, than lovers.

With a huge sigh, I stand and begin to sort through my piles of books for something to read. I'm about to head back towards the couch with a text from my class on Mysticism in Christianity when there is a knock on my door. I groan, knowing it's John, but I can't stop myself from heading towards the door. Sure enough, a peek through the peep-hole reveals my favorite big-eared G-man. I debate not letting him in for a few seconds, but then I spot the flowers he's hiding behind his back.

"Are you going to make a habit of just showing up at my door, now that we live in the same city again? As I remember, you used to call first." I raise my eyebrows at him in imitation of Dana, trying to look cool and unconcerned. I don't think the smile I'm fighting helps.

John looks at me directly, still holding the flowers behind his back. "Believe me, Mon, I would have called first, but someone turned off their cell phone and took the hotel phone off the hook." He smiles, extending the flowers toward me almost hesitantly. "I came to apologize, and to give you these."

My smile breaks free before I can stop it. "Thank you. They're lovely." They are, too. Just a bunch of mixed wildflowers, but I've never been much of a roses girl. I like wildflowers better. "Do you want to come in?" I ask, hoping he'll say yes. I need to sit him down so I can tell him why I've been acting so screwy.

"Actually, I was hoping we could go out. Let me take you to dinner. I want to make up for my rotten behavior." He looks so hopeful. I can't help but wonder what happened in the last three hours, to take him from silent and sullen to wide-eyed and eager. Then again, my mood has improved considerably as well. Maybe we both just needed some rest.

"You want to take me to dinner?" I feel his hesitation and nervousness, although he looks composed. I let his comment about his rotten behavior slide, knowing the situation will get bad again before it gets better. For the moment I just want to enjoy not being pissed off at my best friend.

"Yeah." He shrugs. "Figure it's the least I can do. You've been living in a hotel for three weeks, with most of your life in storage, and I can't be bothered to listen when you talk? Dinner is the least I owe you. If I was you I'd be at National waitin' for the next flight south." His hopeful look is starting to fade, as if any reminder of the way he's been acting will make me slam the door in his face.

I want to stand here and weigh all my options, to find the perfect thing to say to him, to hide how nervous and excited and scared and still a little angry I am. Instead, I open the door wider, and usher him inside. He steps forward hesitantly, as though my hotel room is the Temple of Doom. "Give me one second to change, and then we can go. Good thing for you I haven't eaten." I smile at him, and grab a pile of clothes off the dresser. It's the outfit I set out for tomorrow, so I didn't have to trip over boxes in the morning while I'm barely awake. I can set out another when we get back. As I change, I can hear the faintest whispers of him moving around through the closed door. There is the faint creak of bedsprings just before his voice calls out. "Monica? Why in hell do you have a copy of 'Unsafe At Any Speed'?"

I chuckle, and straighten my blouse before I return to stand before him. He's studying the book intently, flipping through it and actually reading a line here and there. I haven't even opened it since before I met him. It seems like a lifetime ago. Maybe it was.

When I speak, my voice is softer than I'd intended. "I dated this guy in college who was a Communist. He gave me that book to convince me of the ills of a consumerist society that would sacrifice the safety of its people for increased profit. I never really bought into his whole anti-capitalist rhetoric, but it's an interesting book. Handy if you have insomnia at any rate"

John chuckles, weighing the book in his hands. "I had a Corvair, you know." I laugh so abruptly I choke, and he stands up so he can pat my back. In the process of catching my breath, I somehow end up leaning against him. When I've calmed down he continues. "That car was a piece of shit. Never did run right. Thank God I never got into an accident in it."

The idea that John might have died from something as mundane as a car crash, before I ever had the chance to meet him, makes me think about the possibility of Devine Providence. "Come on, Marine. You owe me dinner." I grab his hand, and drag both of us out of the room.


End file.
